


Language Lessons, 11: sabsung (1200 words)

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Language Lessons [11]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: 1 Sentence Fiction, Languages, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-22
Updated: 2005-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:09:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Language Lessons, 11: sabsung (1200 words)

  
  
Three days ashore, the solid dusty ground of Ceylon pushing up against his thin- soled boots (the people here went barefoot; he'd seen no cobbler anywhere), had brought back to Jack Shaftoe all that he'd thought -- or had _not_ thought, not wakeful and rational at least, but simply _accepted_ \-- he'd left behind on the quay at Southwark when, drunken and blindfolded and out of his senses with everything that Sparrow'd done to him, he'd been led aboard the _Black Pearl_ and away, away from everything and everywhere he'd ever known: no more the chancy, though occasionally glamorous, life of a highwayman on the Dunkirk road, no more the careful observation of each great city's different living pulse, no more the shallow sleep and swift waking of any Vagabond who desir'd to live 'til dawn in the company of his fellows: Jack had (he told himself, stretching out on the broad bunk -- the swinging cot having swung its last some half a world ago -- in their cabin, luxuriating in the give of the soft mattress beneath him) grown soft and lazy since he'd come aboard, and more especially since (it had not been _quite_ instantaneous; Jack grinned at the thought of his own bloody-mindedness) he'd taken up with Sparrow and found this strange home for himself, where he might -- weather, (and oooh, Jack Sparrow and his eternal lust for Jack's corpus) permitting -- sleep the night through, dusk til dawn, without fear of murder in the dark, or theft of his few belongings, or the disgusting sort of practical joke that Jack'd been as quick to play on his fellows, back in the old days, as they on him; further, though the work was often hard and the rations sometimes stomach-churningly vile, he was less scrawny now, stronger and more solid, having not gone hungry (not faintingly hungry, at any rate) for long months, being fed and given Rum for no reason save his presence upon, and occasional labour on behalf of, the _Black Pearl_ ; sometimes this communal living smacked unpleasantly of Paid Employment, the avoidance of which state Jack had spent many years refining and polishing to an Art, but whenever this thought had crossed his mind lately he'd taken care to slack and laze for a day or two, until the jibes of his fellow pirates (Jack was surprised to find himself a pirate, that sort being so very Infamous and Unnatural, not to mention Nautical, and prone to being gibbeted; but he s'posed 'twas simply the title of a Gentleman of the Sea, as opposed to one of the Road) became too pointed to ignore with equanimity: aye, he'd grown soft with comfort and contentment, and lay here now _relieved_ to be back on board, back from the ceaseless movement -- a play, in miniature, of his whole Vagabond life -- of Ceylon: a place, like any other town in any land that Jack'd ever visited or heard tales of, where a man who stopped to rest might be accosted, arrested, moved on or thrown in jail for having no legitimate business; where a man who stopped to snatch a few winks of sleep must find a corner where he might rest unobserved, or else court injury, enslavement, theft (Jack'd had one or two trinkets and valuables concealed about his person, intending to trade 'em when the opportunity presented itself) while Sleep had her way with him; where a man must tramp the unforgiving streets, eyes open, mind alert -- or at least not overly fogged with whatever foul beverage was locally available -- always aware of those around him, hand ready to lunge for his sword-hilt or his purse or, as necessary, another fellow's face; where to stop moving was to invite suspicion (from those _above_ one in the order of things) or gleeful rapacity (from those _below_ ); where, in short -- though his travails in Ceylon, a scant three days, had seemed remarkably _long_ \-- a man must keep moving, restless as the sea, or lock himself away inside some house: and Jack Shaftoe, of course, had no house in Ceylon, nor in any other place, and so had walked, and walked, and cursed his sore ship-softened feet (the skin toughened and leathery with scrambling up stays and along ropes, but the muscle and flesh unaccustomed to constant locomotion) as he wandered the streets of the port, pausing but briefly for food and drink, staring over the heads of everyone else on the street (they were small folk, small and thin and brown, and all of them seemed most amused by Jack's Frankish fairness and freakishly blue eyes, never mind his sun-darkened skin) and trying to construct a model in his head of how this place might _work_ : after some hours, with night falling (and the thought of Jack Sparrow a powerful, a nigh-compulsive lure to tug him back t'wards the quay) Jack had found himself in a tavern, speaking with a gnarled and pit-faced bloke whose English, whilst hardly that of the Court, commended him extremely to Jack Shaftoe, and who'd told him of a trading-post out in the jungle, and -- p'rhaps reading Jack's thoughts, or more probably the weariness in his face and the dust that coated him inside and out -- had told him, too, of a place where he might rest in peace awhile: **sabsung** , he said, nodding and grinning like a gargoyle, and Jack (by now used to Sparrow's delight in mere _words_ , and hoping to take him this new pearl if nothing else) had bought him another evil-smelling drink, green as poison, and had him explain this **sabsung** , for the reverence with which the chap spoke the word made Jack believe it conveyed more than simple 'Rest'; and though he did not care to call that night's lodgings (noisy with insects and the skittering of lizards on the walls) by such an esteem'd name, he thought he'd found its Definition now; now, lying here in quiet and peace, waiting for Jack Sparrow to come to him and make his home-coming whole (by his mere presence, in truth, though Jack squirmed happily at the spark of lust that accompanied any thought of Sparrow finding Jack laid out for him like this), Jack thought of this **sabsung** and what the old bloke (come to think on't, hadn't that been him on the poop deck, with Sparrow, when Jack'd staggered back on board?) had said it was; a homecoming, a quenching of thirst -- Jack's mouth, and stomach, twisted at the memory of the vile green spirit that the man'd knocked back with such cheer -- that was more a thirst of the _soul_ , such as priests blithered on about, than of the _body_ ; yet 'twas a physical thirst too, a need for stillness, a time for a man to cast aside his armour (real or phant'sied) knowing himself safe without it; Jack, his boots kicked aside, his sinews loosening, the dust washed from his face, laid still and quiet, and let his thoughts run away like water into the sea that lapped against the hull; he did not hear Jack Sparrow come in, and look thirstily at him, and latch the door.  
A welcome-home present for [](http://tessabeth.livejournal.com/profile)[**tessabeth**](http://tessabeth.livejournal.com/) : begun on the banks of the Seine, finished on the banks of the Ravensbourne  



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